Death cut the strings that gave me life, And handed me to Sorrow, The only kind of middle wife My folks could beg or borrow. — Countee Cullen Copy Share Image
There is no secret to success except hard work and getting something indefinable which we call 'the breaks.' In order for a writer to… — Countee Cullen Copy Share Image
The night whose sable breast relieves the stark, White stars, is no less lovely being dark — Countee Cullen Copy Share Image
There is no secret to success except hard work and getting something indefinable which we call 'the breaks. — Countee Cullen Copy Share Image
Ever at Thy glowing altar Must my heart grow sick and falter, Wishing He I served were black. — Countee Cullen Copy Share Image
“My poetry, I think, has become the way of my giving out what music is within me” — Countee Cullen Copy Share Image
All day long and all night through, One thing only must I do: Quench my pride and cool my blood, Lest I perish in… — Countee Cullen Copy Share Image
What is Africa to me: Copper sun or scarlet sea, Jungle star or jungle track, Strong bronzed men, or regal black Women from whose… — Countee Cullen Copy Share Image
Give but a grain of the heart's rich seed, Confine some under cover, And when love goes, bid him God-speed. And find another lover. — Countee Cullen Copy Share Image
